


The shagging room

by Cerosin



Category: Tom Clancy's Rainbow Six (Video Games)
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Fanart, Glaz having a good time, Glaz is goal oriented, Hand Jobs, Illustrated Fic, Kissing, M/M, Maxim "Safe Sex" Basuda, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Semi-Public Sex, Staring, Top!Kapkan, bottom!glaz
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-05
Updated: 2019-12-15
Packaged: 2020-11-24 09:04:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20905115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerosin/pseuds/Cerosin
Summary: When he draws, Timur stares, and sometimes, he stares too much. It only started with this, really.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Here is my first ever fic in English, and as I am neither native… nor bilingual, thank you so much to ToDragons and Aesos for proofreading this.
> 
> Special thanks to my dear friend [LevaSoj ](https://twitter.com/LevaSoj)who illustrated the second and fourth chapter, and always acts as my emotional support while I write. Give them a follow on twitter if you like KapGlaz and god tier nsfw art.

Since no one was surprised by his antics anymore – and even though it had earned him a couple of weird reactions or stares –, Timur now felt quite at ease randomly sketching people within Rainbow. Mark had been surprisingly enthusiastic about the whole doing; he even thanked Timur a few times for allowing him to scroll through his messy scribbles. Others were still disturbed by his gaze, which he understood, and thus he decided to work more... discreetly, lately. He got so good at keeping his drawing secret, some never even noticed.

\---

Timur flops down on one of the changing room benches, drenched in the sweat and mud of the afternoon practice, and he’s soon hurrying to unclench his many layers of gear in order to rush under the warm stream of a shower. He’s lucky; Aleksandr is late, and the man takes the _ longest _showers, much so that the Spetsnaz's barracks had already got hot water cut more than once.

Timur grabs a deliciously dry and most of all clean undershirt, and as he reaches into a nearby basket to get fresh sweatpants as well, his eyes come across Maxim and Shuhrat talking at the other side of the room. He overhears them speaking about some assault rifle attachment stuff, but he's not really interested in the topic. It turns out that his two teammates, still focused on their discussion, are oblivious to Timur while he gets a premium, undisturbed view of Maxim's lower back when the man props his foot on his bench and leans forward to remove his boot. Timur freezes unconsciously at the sight, and he knows there’s no going back when he immediately relishes in the sight of the few centimeters of skin between the hem of the shirt and the thick belt. He reaches discreetly for his sketchbook when Maxim, still facing the opposite way, makes a move to remove his top. Timur feels his throat going sore all of a sudden. It's the stupidest idea, really, but as the others are still busy talking, this might be the best opportunity for him to... immortalize the sight – something he was thinking about for an embarrassingly long time now.

Timur makes a conscious effort to sit back and have a relaxed stance on his own bench, ready to come up with any kind of excuse to explain that's he's _not_ sketching his half-naked teammate. He lets his eyes wander for a bit, not even noticing how his hand started to move on its own. He has just enough time to roughly put down the outline of Maxim’s body before the piece of clothing is coming off in front of his eyes. He feels his mouth dry out already.

He watches as strong hands are making the telnyashka roll up first from the wide hips, to the waist and the very muscled back, and Timur absentmindedly draws without even checking the canvas in his lap, rather letting his eyes wander over the _ masterpiece _ of a man standing before him. He takes it all into account; the broad shoulders, the dip between the shoulderblades when they move as the man tosses the shirt aside, the spine framed by powerful muscles that dance _ just fine _under the sweaty skin. Timur notices Maxim has a nice tan, more pronounced on his arms – but still, his skin contrasts surprisingly compared to the Uzbek standing next to him when usually, Shuhrat has the darkest skin tone from the team. Timur wonders if Maxim actually spent his summer hunting shirtless, and the mere thought of it both amuses him and wakes up something in him he'd rather not deal with right now.

His gaze is fixed on Maxim's lower back again, hips nicely yet frustratingly _ still _ hugged by the gorka pants the man is wearing, and it physically hurts him to stop staring and check what he actually ended up drawing while paying – well, too much attention. He glances at his sketch, so far, so good – Timur corrects some wobbly lines, but his observation has been rather precise and successful. He slightly sharpens the outline of a long, wiry scar on the right shoulder, and peeks up again as he hears shuffling.

Timur sees that his two teammates apparently decided to settle down on their bench to continue their discussion, shower long forgotten. They're arguing now, which is great because they are both very busy with proving right over attachments for weak guns – why even bother, when you can put a .50 cal bullet in someone's head from afar without checking twice for the kill – and Timur has a perfect angle to sneak a peek at Maxim's torso and it's _ perfect_. From his point of view, somehow, the bleak neon lights make the shapes stand out even more, and it's like admiring an ancient greek statue carefully placed under a certain kind of light for everyone to enjoy every single detail.

That – that _motherfucker_ sits with his legs spread apart of course, hands lazily clasped on his lap as his head is turned towards an increasingly frustrated Shuhrat. He even has a delicious, sly smirk on, undoubtedly angering the Uzbek even more. Timur's grip on his pencil tightens when his gaze is inevitably drawn to the two thick scars adorning – that's _ not _ supposed to be a fitting word – Maxim's lower belly. The first, the older one, runs across his hipbone and disappears under the hem of his pants. The second, that has always fascinated Timur, seems huge as the man lays relaxed, snaking around his bellybutton and up towards his abs, the stitch marks still imprinted and the sight oh so painful – Timur, for a short instant, wishes he could run his hand, his _ tongue, _soothing and feather-light, across it. He blinks twice forcefully as he draws his eyes upwards, following the trail of dark hair along the chiseled abs until his eyes meet the broad chest.

And while he himself clearly isn't anything to scoff at, Timur can't help but ogle freely yet again while his hand runs blindly across his sketchbook. He easily memorizes everything as he slowly drags his eyes upwards: the muscled pectorals, the collarbone and strong arms, the square jaw covered by uneven stubble, more scars striking clear lines on the jawbones, on the lips and on the nose, the greyish blue eyes – oh.

The eyes. He sees the eyes so well, because Maxim is staring back at him, and the scarred mouth now displays a lopsided smile. The argument seems long finished, Shuhrat is gathering his stuff to head to the showers, a detail that Timur managed to miss entirely, and waves absentmindedly as he exits the room. The Uzbek completely misses how nobody notices him, because Timur is still staring, and Maxim is staring back at him.

Timur thinks he's safe, when the object of his staring just gets up and puts his gear in his locker; and he knows he's doomed when suddenly Maxim, very much shirtless now, approaches him while eyeing the sketchbook in his lap. _ Fuck_.

"Can I see it?", he asks simply when he steps in front of him.

There is no way he can escape now. If he refuses it's suspicious, if he accepts then, well. He'll think about this later.

"Yeah, here."

Timur hands the other the sketchbook, closing it in the process as if maybe, Maxim would forget to open the latest pages. His brain shuts off, and he rubs his right eye without thinking, massaging his own brow for comfort.

Maxim skims through the pages, and a pang of pride swells in Timur's chest as he reads genuine amazement on the other's face at some pages. He can guess which ones; some landscapes, some gestures he knows he worked well on, some he even had time to properly color. But the feeling of pure dread soon come back as he spots a blank page, meaning that Maxim reached the latest sketches.

Timur didn't draw the face – he doesn't need to, he knows it by heart, every detail of it. But anyone blessed with eyesight would recognize who the surprisingly precise and detailed body belongs to.

He braces himself for the shocked insults, maybe even the slurs, and he is the most surprised to hear what actually comes from the smart, scarred mouth of the other.

"Impressive stuff, you're talented, really. But you forgot a scar, here."

And before Timur has anything to say in his defense, Maxim haphazardly tosses the sketchbook back onto the bench. Timur loses all trail of thought in such a short amount of time that Maxim has to tap his finger on his own chest, showing a faint scar across it, to regain Timur’s attention.

Timur can only stare dumbfounded at the tiny scar, almost impossible to spot unless somebody is as close as he is now – which is very. He finds himself surprised that his hands aren’t shaking yet, with him being so close to the broad chest he was ogling mere seconds ago, and time suddenly feels streched out, almost still. He nods wordlessly, and Maxim glances down for a second, flashing a cheeky smile, before turning away. Timur sees him remove his trousers, launching them in the dirty laundry basket and trade them for clean sweatpants. Maxim puts the fresh clothes under his arm, but Timur doesn't even have the brain capacity to process the short glance at the fantastic ass he just got. He's extremely, _ extremely _ busy with telling his lower brain to calm the fuck down.

"You might want to take care of your boner as well, I also got distracted by your pretty eyes, but I'm not blind!" says Maxim, a smile audible in his voice, before disappearing behind the door.

Timur peers down at the still very muddy gorka pants he wears, only to be greeted by an obvious bulge. The heavy fog that was clouding his brain finally lifts, allowing him to notice the pressure in his lower belly coming back full force; and at this point he thinks he might die of spontaneous combustion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/cerosin_bis) as well.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you ToDragons and Aesos for proofreading this <3  
Special thanks to my dear friend [LevaSoj ](https://twitter.com/LevaSoj)who illustrated this chapter and always acts as my emotional support while I write. Give them a follow on twitter if you like KapGlaz and god tier nsfw art. Full illustration link in end notes.

A soft click in the silence of the night; Timur turns the light on in the changing room, and squints a bit as his eyes adjust to the aggressive, yellowish neon lights. The sudden brightness hurts his head, since he made his way through pitch dark in the corridors of the barracks not to wake anyone up at such an ungodly hour. He cautiously closes the door behind him, and goes for his locker where he forgot his sketchbook earlier in the afternoon. A restless night like this one was, given the insufferable heat, could actually be used to be productive in something that didn't require him shooting at a target.

He fetches the sketchbook that was carefully placed onto a shelf, and skims through it as he closes his locker blindly. His thumb stops at the particular page he had wanted to avoid these days – did he, really? – and his gaze falls to the strikingly accurate sketches, way more assured than any of the others. He eyes the drawn figures, front and back, and as his eyes travel across the precise and confident lines, he remembers every muscle as if it was moving before him once again. 

Timur smashes the sketchbook closed, obnoxiously loud in the empty room and the calm of the night. He squeezes the cursed object in his hands, closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose, sighing loudly in an attempt to empty his head, but it's way too late. The image is imprinted in his brain, he can even recall the shame of being caught unashamedly staring at Maxim by the man himself, and it shoots fire in his ears– and soon enough, to his greatest dismay, to his traitorous groin.

Painfully aware of his own tendency to focus a bit too much once he's got an image in head, Timur figures that he might need to deal with this before going back to the shared bedroom. It's the worst idea he's ever had, he thinks once again, but this time at least, he's alone and it's past midnight. So Timur sits down on the same bench as usual, throws his head back to look at the ceiling as if it could wash away his guilt with its plain tiles and bleak lights, and snakes his hand into his sweatpants.

The vain focus on other thoughts is useless, and it doesn’t take long before he feels himself harden quickly as he pictures powerful muscles dancing under sweaty skin and vivid blue eyes. Timur gives up, and decides to indulge a bit as he palms himself over his boxers, not wanting to give in just yet, and right now, even the friction through the textile seems godlike to him. 

His thumb rakes over the hem of his underwear to slip under it as the images begin to get clearer behind his eyelids, and it's at this exact moment he hears familiar, muffled curses and loud steps approaching.

Timur barely has half a second to jump to his feet and turn around to face the wall to try and salvage himself; the door flies open the very next moment, and a very familiar man bursts in while his heartbeat is pulsing in his ears, both from panic and arousal. 

"Who the fuck left the lights– Timur?!" says Maxim behind him, disbelief audible in the too loud whisper.

A million excuses race through Timur's brain, but none of them could explain _ this_. He's a trained, cold-blooded operator, praised for his analytical mind, who received extensive military training and knows how to handle every situation. But nearly being caught jerking off to the thought of his teammate by none other than said teammate, was definitely not in his books. Maxim was starting to become a bit too good at catching him red-handed, lately.

"Yeah, I forgot something, it's fine. I'll soon go back to the room, sorry.", he uselessely tries, but he knows too damn well how Maxim can hear the sheer panic lying under his apparently collected tone; they have been working side by side for quite a long time and Timur firmly believes that by now, Maxim knows how to read him better than anyone else. He also likes to believe this works both ways.

Maxim doesn't make a move. Timur can't see him, he is still facing the wall to shamefully hide the obvious tent in his sweatpants, but he doesn't hear any movement from his peer. He doesn’t hear a shuffle, he doesn’t hear anything, but when he suddenly does, he once again knows he's doomed. He holds his breath as he hears the other wordlessly approaching, and swears he can feel a drop of cold sweat running along his back under his telnyashka.

"I think", the menace states in a low purr over Timur's right shoulder, "you have a problem".

The two centimeters Maxim has on him feel like a slap to his face as he suddenly feels much smaller compared to his teammate. Timur crumbles a bit on himself, his eyes focused on the bleak tiles in front of him.

"Maybe I should lend you a hand", Maxim continues, and the same muscled arms Timur glanced at guiltily so often are now brushing against his sides, effectively cornering him, and strong hands come to rest on top of his thighs, thumbs tantalizingly close to his crotch.

Timur drops his head, and can only watch helplessly as the other’s rough hands are moving slowly towards the shame that burns in his lower belly. He doesn't dare to move. He could escape in a heartbeat, he could protest, he could do anything really, but he only manages to clasp a hand around one of Maxim's forearms, not even stopping him, just– grasping. 

When a clever hand snakes under his tank top and brushes lightly against the trail of dark hair that disappears below the hem of his pants, Timur has to bite his tongue not to let out a shameful moan upon feeling the calloused, yet insufferably hot fingers creeping downwards. His breath hitches when he feels, even worse, he _ sees _ Maxim's other arm - the one he's holding on - move to effectively pull on his sweatpants. His grasp weakens. Timur feels like he's dreaming, and the mixed emotions rushing through his brain could qualify this as a nightmare as much as a wet dream.

He feels the other shifting closer behind him, shrouding his back, and imagining this scene from outside should _not_ make his blood rush south faster, but it is. He pictures it, and his brain short-circuits as it is the moment both of Maxim's hands slip past the waistband of his pants – and his boxers, apparently.

"Nice", comments the raspy voice, close enough to him that Timur can actually feel the hint of stubble tickling his earlobe and the rumbles in the chest flushed against his back, before he feels a fist closing around his shaft.

A shiver runs through Timur as he quickly comes to terms with the fact that he's getting an impromptu handjob from Maxim himself. With the man pressed against his back and only separated by their two summer telnyashkas and light sweatpants, his already startlingly hard cock twitches in the foreign hand. Timur weakly pushes one of his forearms against the wall in front of him, leaning against the cold tiles because he very much feels he needs the support or else his knees will give out. His other hand slides higher on Maxim's arm, and takes hold on his elbow.

Down below the heat is insufferable, just as much as it feels like heaven. Maxim's dry, rough hands are in no way what one would qualify as delicate, but it's everything Timur could have fantasized about. Maxim seems to know what he's doing, jerking him slowly, smearing the precum that shamefully begins to appear to ease the twist of his wrist, squeezing the head every so often and eliciting bitten back moans from Timur. Maxim's other hand slowly slides higher under his top to tentatively brush over his nipple, just like Timur himself does to let off some steam during his alone time – at this point, he wonders if the other actually watched him somehow, because he's about to combust and he frankly doesn't know who to blame at this point.

Maxim shifts a bit behind him, and Timur snaps out of his thoughts. He notices he isn't the only one whose breathing got heavier, and when he slightly straightens up, the sweat on his arm having made it slip lower on the wall, he distinctly feels that the other is getting hard against his backside. _ Oh_.

Timur decides risking a look behind himself. He turns his head, but the side of his jaw collides with Maxim's face– was he this close up to now?  
He feels the outline of Maxim’s lips against his cheekbone, feels the rake of the light beard on his cheek, and distinguishes a flash of teeth as lips split into a smile. Timur immediately turns his head back to the wall, gazing down as if it could lessen any of the overwhelming feeling flooding him.

His eyes just fall back on calloused hands working him slow and steady to a climax he quickly realizes he's very close to, given that he unconsciously began thrusting in the other's fist, prompting him to _go faster_. The wet slaps of skin in the room’s silence sound so dirty and so _ loud_, yet it doesn’t ease his arousal, quite the opposite. He sucks in a sharp breath as he throws his head back, and it’s that moment Maxim chooses to graze a fingernail under the head of his cock, prompting Timur to curse once more between clenched teeth, this time sounding very much like a moan.

"Getting close already, aren’t we?" Maxim taunts next to his ear, and his voice is unusually breathy.

As Maxim speeds up his strokes and his other hand slides a bit lower, now a fleeting touch against his lower belly, Timur figures out he's too far gone and has nothing to lose. He lets out a whimper he can't hold back, gathers the little strength that's still in him, and he grinds his lower body back against Maxim with intent.

"Seems like I'm not the only one", he snaps back.

Maxim groans, actually _groans _millimeters from his ear and it's nearly being too much. Timur feels like he's going to black out as the hand curled around his dick squeezes and the now very solid member between his still clothed cheeks twitches forcefully.

"I won't be the first one, though", Maxim whispers hoarsely, heated breath sliding lower. 

Timur feels sharp teeth against the side of his neck, and Maxim _ bites_.

Timur is sent over the edge immediately with a loud moan; his thighs spasm painfully as he spills himself both on the wall and in Maxim’s palm, eyes closed and cursing to wash away the shame of it all. It takes a while for him to drain out completely, and Maxim continues stroking him through the whole ordeal, his other hand backed down to grasp his hip as Timur is still holding onto the arm milking him like his life depends on it.

His heart is still hammering in his chest when Timur opens his eyes again and stares at the mess he's made, not wanting to let go of the bliss just yet. Maxim is still flushed close, breathing remarkably hard, and while Timur is coming down from his high, he's distinctly aware again of the state the other is in. He's fairly sure– screw that, he _ knows _Maxim isn't wearing boxers under his sweatpants, there's no mistaking as to what he feels a bit too distinctly against his ass.

He gathers the newfound energy he has knowing that he’s not the one with a _ problem _to deal with anymore; and when he feels Maxim opening up his mouth against his neck, Timur has already decided how he's gonna handle this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is the [full, uncropped](https://twitter.com/LevaSoj/status/1180479296734928902) illustration, inspired by this fic.  
Find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/cerosin_bis) as well.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't thank enough ToDragons and Aesos for proofreading this <3  
Special thanks to my dear friend LevaSoj who (still) acts as my emotional support while I write.  
I hope the POV change isn't too confusing, but I needed it to be extra juicy. Hope you enjoy.

For a short, blissful moment, none of them make a move. The silence of the room is only disturbed by the sound of them both collecting their breaths, and Maxim is the first to act, slowly detaching his mouth from the side of Timur's neck. He can see the other's gaze is fixated on the wall, cheeks reddened and eyes unfocused, surely ashamed of what just happened.

"You okay?", Maxim tries, because he suddenly feels way less bold than he was a second before.

Timur's grip on his elbow loosens, and Maxim removes his hands from Timur's crotch. He backs up a bit, already missing the warmth that was covering every inch of his body. He wipes his hand on his joggers, and peers down at his own groin. Well.

A grumble answers him, and he looks back at the younger man just to see him turn around with a sigh. The other adjusts his pants and sits down unceremoniously on the bench, a good distance from the now soiled wall. Avoiding his gaze, Maxim mirrors the movement and sits down facing Timur. He peers up again and opens his mouth, but he sees how Timur is about to speak as well and shuts it off – the other has the same reaction, and they both snort awkwardly, averting their gaze. This is ridiculous. Timur doesn't seem mad, though, and his cheeks are still flushed red. Maxim thinks it's adorable.

"This", Timur comments first, "was a bold move."  
Maxim can't deny. On the other hand – he's not blind, he had noticed the stares for quite some time by now, even though Timur had always been _ excellent _ at hiding them. When he entered the room earlier, conclusions were easy to draw given the late hour, the sketchbook tossed on the bench, and the other man turned away with ears so traitorously red. Maxim saw an opportunity and took it, but now he has to admit he doesn't know what to expect from the aftermath of this, neither did he really think about it. Thank God he doesn’t have such horrible impulse control on the battlefield.

So he just nods, looking at Timur without wanting to stare, instead glaring at the slightly slumped shoulder where he can see the imprint of his teeth. He may have gone a little bit overboard. Hopefully it'll wear off after a day. More hopefully, it won’t.

"Want me to return the favor?", a surprisingly collected voice asks him.

Maxim gets thrown off of his train of thought and locks his gaze with Timur’s. It's the first time this evening he actually sees his eyes, and he gets lost in them for a second. Getting no answer, the younger man slumps forward, dropping his elbows on his knees and gestures vaguely towards Maxim's crotch. Ah, yes, this.

His short introspection and the awkwardness of it all got him softening, but Maxim is_ still _sporting a raging hard-on under his sweatpants, which is showcased by the fact that he's sitting down legs spread open - a habit he still has to kick.  
Maxim drags his eyes back to Timur's and spies the usual spark of self-confidence coming back in his gaze, suddenly transforming the apparent ashamed facade into something else that is quite interesting to look at. It’s only been a few seconds, but the atmosphere has changed, and he feels that something, like an unsaid and implicit challenge, crept its way between the two of them. Maxim doesn't think much more, he simply takes the plunge.  
"I mean, you weren't just about to leave me hanging like this, were you?", he asks in return.

Timur stays silent for a short moment, and Maxim fears he’s blown it. But after a few seconds the younger man breaks eye contact, pushes his elbows off his legs and gets up. Maxim watches as Timur approaches him. Will he sit down next to him, or ask him to stand up? Maxim thinks he can't stand getting a handjob while facing the other, it's... frankly bordering on being too much, right now. Maybe he'll tell him. In the meantime...  
Timur steps in front of him, and Maxim drags his gaze up to meet his eyes, hands awkwardly propped into his lap.  
He understands he miscalculated the whole thing when Timur cautiously drops to his knees.

As Maxim's brain immediately battles itself into finding how to react, as he was expecting everything but this, Timur boldly presses his thumbs in the crease of his hips, pushing a bit to wordlessly ask him to, hell, _ remove his pants_.

"Hey– hey now. You're not... you don't have to do _ this._" Maxim tries, his hands lifted, unsure.

"I want to", Timur immediately replies, now definitely sounding assured, maybe even impatient while the flush still hasn't left his face, and Maxim feels all his blood rushing south again.

He doesn't know what to answer, but he certainly isn't going to complain. Feeling emboldened again, Maxim shoves Timur's hands away from his pants, lifts his hips and slides down his joggers easily, folding one of his legs to free it and let the unnecessary piece of cloth pool down to his other foot.

As he didn't bother with underwear –yet another _ habit _ of his-, his erection springs free and although he definitely is familiar with the usual reactions of others upon seeing it in its full glory, he can't help but feel cocky at the slight shift of emotion in Timur's eyes. He sits up a bit straighter on the bench, the cool night air brushing his thighs in an enjoyable way, and peers down at the other, half expecting him to back off.

"Nice", Timur comments with a snarl that echoes almost ironically to Maxim's ears, before bluntly gripping the base of his cock and swallowing the head whole.

Maxim doesn't even have time to let out any kind of noise of surprise, but he sure sees white for a short instant, breathing in a silent gasp as he feels the delicious wet heat suddenly surrounding him. It's been a long time since he's last been sucked off, yet he's sure of one thing: Timur definitely isn't new to this. This thought bugs him more than he'd like to admit, but he decides to push it off, and just enjoy what he didn't even know he was craving so badly.

Maxim can only watch enraptured as Timur expertly laps the head to coax it out of the foreskin, massaging the rest of the shaft with his hand and giving tentative licks downwards. He alternates between long stripes licked on the underside and strokes along the base; and he absolutely _ professionally _sucks on the head of Maxim’s cock as he slowly but surely swallows more of it between each slow and steady bob of his head.

Brows furrowed in concentration under his beanie, Timur puts his free hand on Maxim's knee to hold it in place –Maxim didn't even notice his leg was bouncing, but apparently, it was– and pulls off with a wet noise.

"Lost your tongue?", Timur asks after licking his lips.

"I– shut up."

A snort. "That's what I figured. All bark and no bite."

"Humour me. Poor choice of words", Maxim snaps back as he eyes the angry red bite mark on Timur’s shoulder. 

The end of his sentence trails off in a shameful bitten-back moan, as the absolute fiend between his legs decides to end the argument by sinking down on his cock again, this time way lower, and Maxim's self-control is beginning to wear off.

While one of his hands is gripping the bench, holding onto it for dear life, as Timur is apparently keen on giving him the best blowjob of his life, Maxim raises his other hand and tentatively puts it on top of Timur's head, pressing down just a bit to test the waters. Absolutely no protest or choking sound comes from the other, who's still working the length with his mouth and hand, twisting his wrist and doing some... thing with his cheeks that Maxim can't even identify, but the sensation of which sure is divine.

Maxim feels like he's losing his composure. He wants to snarl, but the only things escaping his lips now are groans he can’t hold back. The room is filled with wet sucking sounds, only interrupted when the younger man pauses a bit to breathe properly. Timur seems –fuck, _ is_ excellent at what he does and Maxim can't complain, but he doesn't know if he likes the sensation of losing control in a terrain he could have bet he was more assured on. He was all but expecting such a change of attitude, and doesn't know if it angers or rather _interests_ him.

Timur pulls off again after baring a bit of teeth on the ridge of his dick, raking ever so slightly but still sending a shiver all up Maxim's spine. He lifts a leg that was firmly planted on the floor, feeling it becoming almost numb by now, and hooks it behind Timur's back, holding him in place – as if the man ever was planning to move.

"You haven't even got the balls to push", Timur provokes, and Maxim really begins to wonder what he has done, because the man kneeling between his legs certainly has nothing to do with the shy attitude displayed earlier while cornered between his arms – which leaves him quite stumped for now.

"I was merely trying to be considerate", Maxim begins, "now shut it and deepthroat me", he growls, and clenches his hand on Timur's beanie without pushing, just as a warning, because there's no way this won't shut him up for good.

Timur stops in his ministrations, raises his gaze, just- peers his eyes up to him and gives him a dirty look – lips parted, cheeks flushed and pupils blown wide. The younger man removes his hand from his length, wipes his mouth and steadies himself on Maxim's thighs. Then he raises his eyebrows without breaking eye contact and proceeds to do exactly as he was so nicely prompted to.  
Timur has done this. He definitely has done this before, there's _no _ other explanation to how easily he swallows the shaft in one go again. This time he slides way lower and Maxim can feel the base of a tongue under the head of his cock, can feel the muscles working around it and- god, is that the back of his _ throat _?

Maxim thinks that he will never experience any more coherent thought when he feels, even worse, _sees_ Timur's nose poking his groin, and he watches it bury itself in coarse hair. Timur stays like this for a blissful moment as a low, uncontrolled rumble goes through Maxim's chest. He feels his abs contract, and he throws his head back because he can't keep looking at the delicious, hollowed cheeks of the man working his magic below him. A very light gargle sound escapes Timur when he finally pulls off again, but he doesn't let Maxim any time to gather his thoughts as he goes _fucking_ _serious_ and begins bobbing his head faster, a hand coming down to fondle his balls every so often.

Maxim realizes he's getting extremely close to his climax as he begins to see stars everytime Timur tilts his head and sucks down enthusiastically. He's now gripping that stupid beanie with much more strength as if to find support, and his other hand, still grasping the edge of the bench, is actually beginning to hurt.

While Timur kneads his thighs slowly, in an almost soothing way, an eerie and unprompted feeling of fondness sneaks its way in Maxim's heart. This still pretty much feels like some sort of fever dream, yet it's happening; and with each passing minute, Maxim finds himself thinking that he could definitely get used to this. A more concerning thought is that now, he wants _ more_. Even worse, he's pretty sure he doesn't want anyone else but him to be able to experience this.

To this, Maxim's thoughts suddenly come to a halt, the pressure in his lower belly almost forgotten. He's flooded by conflicting feelings; a displaced jealousy at the mere thought of someone else laying their hands on Timur and just- an overwhelming _ need_. Maxim doesn't really pay attention, but his body reacts for him: he roughly clenches his hand, locking Timur's head in place, and thrusts hard in his mouth. He's brought back to reality upon hearing a surprised yelp from the other, who pulls off a bit, gives him an inquisitive look, but then just continues where he stopped.

Maxim grumbles an apology, to which only pretty, undisturbed blue eyes answer him. He could do anything to Timur, and the man looks like he'd take it willingly. _ Fuck_. Maxim lets out a whimper as he unclenches his hand from the back of Timur's head and slowly trails it down along his temple, his ear and onto his cheek, lightly grazing against the stubble here in an almost delicate gesture; at odds with the short thrusts he can't hold back anymore into the welcoming mouth.

"Timur I'm– I'm close, you might want to finish with–", he's interrupted by a lascivious lick on the underside of his shaft and he lets out a gasp, "–with your hand."

Timur says nothing, instead exhales around him through his nose, closes his eyes and deepthroats him _ again, _his breath tickling the goddamn hair on his crotch as he bottoms out. Maxim can only let out a curse this time, as Timur very slightly parts his lips to slide up again and before he has time to add anything, he comes down the other's throat.

Maxim rests his hand against Timur's neck and forcefully closes his eyes – his powerful orgasm is making him see stars – cursing again between clenched teeth. He feels Timur swallow twice under his fingertips, and he can barely restrain another swear. He only opens his eyes again when Timur pulls back completely, air feeling startlingly cold to the now wet and oversensitive skin of his cock. He unhooks his leg from behind Timur's back, and realizes it was very nearly cramping up from how tense the muscles were.

He basks in the afterglow with half lidded eyes and hands propped to his sides while Timur sits down on the ground, wiping his mouth again to get rid of the spit and various other body fluids. Maxim sees the other's chest heaving under his sleeveless top, lips swollen and cheeks ablaze, and he doesn't know if it's the endorphins settling it but he feels a rush of affection going through him again.

Timur perks his eyes up and smiles – he saw his gaze, even read him, probably. But although clearly _ very _satisfied, his expression is soft and doesn't reek of anything malicious.

"I never saw you change attitude so often in such a short amount of time", Timur rightfully comments, his tone amused, legs folded as he sits down more comfortably on the tiled floor.

"I could say the same about you. Fuck."

Maxim is still in disbelief, staring down at his softening cock as he feels like he got his brains sucked out, and this time following the literal sense of the expression.

"We should clean the wall before heading out", Maxim says because he doesn't want silence to settle in. He's profusely sweating under his own telnyashka and feels like he could take a single, very long and mostly _ cold _ shower until the morning rises – what time was it now, anyway?

Timur stands up, massaging some feeling back into his own legs, and throws the pants Maxim unceremoniously removed earlier at the man. He then unashamedly palms himself, and as Maxim realizes with growing horror that Timur's crotch also displays a very evocative tent _ again_, the latter finally answers:

"Yes. I'll leave you to it, though, _ I _ need a cold shower more than you. Thanks for giving me a hand, by the way."

And just like that, the other man makes his way to the door, but not without shooting him a satisfied smile and –hell– a _ wink_. Maxim has no right to contradict him, so he just drags his eyes back to the soiled wall at the other side of the room when the door falls shut next to him.  
With his mind full of conflicting feelings, Maxim begins to wonder; what kind of beast has he unleashed, and how will he manage the undoubtedly awkward days to come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/cerosin_bis).  
Stay tuned for chapt 4, as it will come (ha.) with an extra treat that I think you will really like.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here is the last chapter! I still can’t believe I finally published (and completed) my first ever proper fic. Even in french I didn’t finish anything, so, yeah. I hope you’ll enjoy this lengthier chapter with its extra treat.  
Once again, I can’t thank enough To_Dragons and Aesos for proofreading and making this happen. Same goes for LevaSoj who illustrated both this and the 2nd chapter and (still) acts as my emotional support.

It turns out that they didn't get the opportunity to speak about the whole ordeal. The days following the… _ impromptu meeting_, had been spent either in practice or in common rooms. Bringing up a subject as delicate as a _freshly-discovered-to-be-mutual-attraction-through-a-steamy-time-with-your-teammate_, even in between their own quarters, wasn't something either Maxim nor Timur would be crazy enough to talk about. But Maxim, for one, had a hard time falling asleep as of late, recalling the lingering feeling of a pulse under his fingertips and sweaty brows furrowed in concentration below him.

Timur had been dancing around him for quite some time before this, that much is sure. Neither of them ever mentioned it or acted on it, but the attraction had been unmistakeable; the evident staring, the eyes shying away when Maxim dared to look back at the younger man, the unease in close quarters combat training whenever their faces got too close. And whether it be their forced physical proximity in the unit and on missions, their similarities in thinking, the sheer talent Timur was displaying in every field, or just for the pretty blue eyes, Maxim had found himself staring back more than necessary.

He had kept silent, though, seeing as Timur seemed very uncomfortable. Maybe he, himself, was subconsciously – really ? – avoiding the subject as well. Thankfully, Maxim knew how to manage frustration, especially of this kind, without any help, or so he believed. He also believed that none of his teammates noticed the more... frequent morning wood he had to take care of in the silence of their shared dorm; or the longer showers he took after training, his mind filled with soft whimpers that weren't foreign to him anymore and hot flesh under his hands.

And now, well, it was becoming increasingly difficult to tip-toe around each other. It was as though fate was finding every excuse to put them in each others paths. It was frustrating Maxim to no end, and demanded resolution. He just hoped it wouldn't take too long.

— 

Choosing to hang by the shooting range at night had its advantages, one of them being that Maxim didn't have to train under the scorching mid-august afternoon sun. The nights here were definitely still too warm for him, but they were the better alternative. Plus, being alone, he could spare himself all the heavy gear they were usually required to wear in daytime practice, a welcome change during this part of the season.

Maxim doesn't come back too late, this time. He notices the lights are on in the shared kitchen as he opens the door, and he winces upon entering, feeling the heat of the room. This building is impossible to cool during summer.

He immediately spots Timur sitting on a chair around the main table, finishing up some kind of berry ice cream that he absentmindedly picks at, while scrolling on his phone. At such an hour? What a weirdo.  
Maxim mumbles a greeting and makes his way to the sink, washes his hands and grabs the water bottle he left in the fridge before practice.

While he chugs the deliciously cold water, Maxim tries his best to ignore Timur at his side. He really does try. But he feels the piercing gaze of the other man, drilling holes in the side of his skull, and when he turns his head angrily to tell the younger man to either stop it or make his mind, it’s even worse. Instead of averting his gaze as he would usually do, Timur shoots back a dirty look from his chair, and then proceeds to check him out. He just- eyes him from head to toe, with way more confidence than he did just a few days ago in the changing rooms, _ and _while sucking on his spoon with much more intent than what a normal person would do.

Maxim doesn’t know if it riles him up in a good or in a bad way, but with the pent up frustration and lingering doubt from the past days, he decides that it’s unbearable.

“You’re doing this on purpose.” he growls out, more to himself than anything.

He angrily slams the water bottle back on the counter, with enough force to make the plastic pop upon hitting the furniture, and approaches Timur, who in answer gets up, looking annoyingly unbothered. Maxim stops in front of the other man when he’s close, when he’s _ very _close, looks him dead in the eyes, and waits. In the still too hot air, he can feel two, three of Timur’s exhales on his collarbone.

Their similar height makes it so that none of them budge. A few centimeters away from Maxim, Timur’s eyes are piercing right through his, and after a few excruciatingly long seconds of uncomfortable closeness, Maxim decides to break the ice. He slowly brings his left hand up and, without breaking eye contact, brushes where the bite mark - _ his _bite mark - from a few days before is sitting at the junction between Timur’s neck and shoulder, faint and nearly invisible, but still there. The gesture is both a reminder, and a wordless question.

“We should– we have to do something”, Maxim states, eyes focused on the other’s shoulder, avoiding his eyes.

“Do you want to?”, he all but gets as an answer from Timur. Maxim snorts. They’re both so, so bad at this.

“Thought I was being clear enough, last time. Do _ you _want to?”

“Do you really still need to ask this question?”, Timur continues, and he brings a hand up to tug at Maxim’s sleeveless top, just over the collarbone. 

Maxim figures he doesn’t need to, indeed. “I think the changing rooms are quite safe, given the hour”, he offers. 

Timur nods silently, eyes wild and the implications clear. Maxim feels static in his fingers - a pang of excitement, a thrill even. Though he’ll have to take a step into what they managed to avoid talking about directly, for the sake of doing this properly. “I have condoms”, he blurts out after a second, and it took so much energy of him to just say this, he hopes Timur will pick up.

“And I have lube. Gotta get it from the room though”, the latter answers. Maxim feels both relieved and _ curious_, because although he was hoping for this answer, with them avoiding talking about anything sexual, the sheer implications of this makes his blood boil. He doesn’t really want to wait anymore. Maybe he never wanted to, in the first place.

“Good. Then let’s go”, Maxim says before tearing his gaze from Timur, whose pupils he swears are now wider.

— 

The tension in the air while they walk is unbearable. This is… sudden, new, _ awkward_. They make their way in a heavy silence through the main corridor leading to their shared room, where the other two are probably already sleeping. Maxim sure hopes they are.

They halt in front of the door, as Timur whispers “I’ll go first.”

Maxim nods wordlessly, figuring that it’ll definitely look less suspicious if only one of them is in the room should Aleksandr or Shuhrat wake up. When Timur disappears behind the door, knowing exactly how to work the handle for it to not make any sound, Maxim can’t help but imagine what his younger counterpart is up to when he needs to let off some steam. Down below, his cock already gives an interested twitch at the mere thought.

Timur comes back a few seconds later, holding a little bottle of lube in front of Maxim’s face as if he was displaying a trophy, and whispers “_changing rooms” _ before leaving, gaze a flash of blue in the low lights.

Maxim enters, and sneaks up to one of the storage cases under his bed. The distant light from the door left ajar behind him is enough to quickly find what he was looking for. He grabs the last two remaining condoms, wondering with great dismay when was the last time he actually needed those. He fights against the urge not to do this because of the sheer implications it has, but he checks the expiration date nonetheless. Reassured and not wanting to spend one more minute here, he shoves both condoms in the front pocket of his sweatpants. Closing the case softly, he waits for a short instant, listens to the faint snores of his teammates nearby, and when he’s sure that they’re both fast asleep, he cautiously gets up and exits the room.

Maxim strides forward in the dimly lit corridor, doubts creeping up as he approaches the changing rooms. He doesn’t let himself be stopped by thinking too much, though, but he’s _ really _wondering how this will go.

He pushes the slightly opened door, second thoughts thrown back, and enters the room, noticing Timur sitting on a bench from the corner of his eye. Avoiding to look at the other, he turns to close the door as quietly as possible, and once done, he doesn’t remove his hand from the handle immediately, rather looks at it- eyes the unused key hanging in the lock. The prospect of actually locking the door behind him, the _ cliché _ of this simple gesture, gets him to hesitate. He must have waited a bit too long ; he hears Timur getting up behind him, so with a soft _ click _, Maxim locks the door. He exhales, a bit too loudly, a bit too dramatic maybe, and turns around to face the man whose face and body has haunted his dreams.

He thinks this will be yet another staring contest, but it turns out Timur doesn’t seem too keen on losing time by testing the waters, and goes straight to the point. Maxim blinks once, and the next moment the other grabs his face between his hands and crashes their lips together. It doesn’t last long, nor does Maxim have the chance to deepen the kiss, because Timur pulls back after a few seconds. He stays close though, breathing the same air as him.

“I’ve wanted this”, Timur begins while Maxim brings both of his hands behind the younger man's neck, thumbs grazing against the buzzed hair, “for a long time”.

Maxim can’t stand it. Instead of answering anything, he tilts his head, closes the minuscule space between their faces and kisses Timur again, with much more force now. What began as nearly awkward, now rapidly gets heated as Timur answers eagerly, parting his lips and making their teeth clash – both of them are already quite riled up at this point.

Timur licks over the thick scar splitting Maxim’s lips to pry them open, and Maxim complies with a satisfied groan. Strangely enough, he didn’t fantasize too much about kissing the other man, his longing had been mostly sexual – especially lately –, but this alone is enough to shoot fire to his groin and right now, he can’t imagine anything better. Maxim immediately shoves his tongue in Timur’s mouth, tasting the remnants of the berries here, and drinks in the whine he gets as an answer. They part for air for a ridiculously short time, and Maxim spies a trail of saliva still linking their lips - dirty. He really enjoys the vision of the other’s equally wet and already swollen lips, though. He shoots Timur a satisfied smile before resuming the kisses, that barely deserve this name anymore.

After a few more seconds – or is it minutes? – of sloppy makeout, Maxim is already so turned on, he feels like he’s losing his mind. Dropping his hands from Timur’s neck, he firmly grabs the other’s ass over his sweatpants and pulls him closer without breaking the kiss, grinding forcefully against a half-hard cock that already mirrors his own. Timur lets out a satisfied hum and answers by slipping both of his hands, insufferably hot but still _ very _welcome, under Maxim’s tank top.

“So how do you wanna do this?”, Timur asks when they part again for air.

“Uh,” Maxim looks around, trying to concentrate over the haze clouding his brain and the hands feeling his abs. “There’s uh, a counter over here”, he says while pointing at a very convenient counter built in the wall next to the lockers.

“Alright.”

Maxim groans again upon feeling a hand pinching one of his nipples, and he drops his gaze to see Timur pulling up the hem of his tank top to remove it. Maxim steps back and lets the other man bring the piece of cloth over his own head, tossing the discarded telnyashka aside immediately. This gesture is just so unbearably _ hot _ Maxim thinks he’ll really need to shove his dick _ somewhere _soon, else he’s gonna cream himself embarrassingly early from nothing but messy kisses.

“You fine with… being on the receiving end?”, Maxim asks, his hands burning, scratching slightly at Timur’s lower back under his sleeveless shirt. He definitely doesn’t trust himself to be patient, given the pace being set.

“I wasn’t picturing this the other way around”, Timur answers, breathing remarkably hard already. “Let me just”, he begins, grabbing one of Maxim’s hands behind him and bringing it up in front of his eyes. Maxim watches, confused, as the younger man rapidly eyes his fingernails, and it _ clicks _ as the other finishes. “Yeah. I’ll take care of this part”.

And Maxim would really like to object, but he can only agree that he should trim his fingernails for the next time – the next time?  
Timur doesn’t let him get lost in his thoughts again. He playfully rakes his (trimmed) fingernails on Maxim’s lower belly, following the scars here and eliciting a shiver, and then backs up a bit.

In a swift movement, Timur unashamedly gets both his pants and boxers down, and hops on the counter against the wall. Maxim spies the bottle of lube in Timur’s hand, and before he even has time to say anything, Timur coats his fingers in it, leans back against the wall to rest against it, spreads his legs and just – presses two fingers in himself. _ What_. Maxim sees him wince a bit, but Timur seems pretty much _ fine _ and slowly begins moving his hand for the fingers to reach deeper.

Maxim can practically feel his cock swell up at this mere sight, and as he gets closer to the other man, he palms himself roughly over his pants, the friction more than welcome. Fuck. He can’t _ wait _ to bury himself where he belongs. He watches as a flushed, but very proud looking Timur just works himself open freakishly fast less than a meter from him. He doesn’t look like he’s struggling at all. His movements seem _ practiced _, hell, he makes it seem so easy Maxim feels his head spinning upon realizing he very clearly didn’t know everything about his teammate.

Timur adds a third finger after some time, and by this point Maxim is so hard it’s nearly painful. Timur reaches deeper, lets out a silent gasp, mouth half open and muscles fluttering, and Maxim almost loses it.

“You’re ready”, he grumbles, and if it doesn’t sound like a question, it’s because it isn’t one.

Timur snorts in answer, and has the gall to let out a “_Like what you see?” _before withdrawing his fingers. He then collects himself a bit, straightens up and gestures for Maxim to get closer. Timur reaches out with his clean hand towards him.

“Fuck me”, he whispers in a heated breath, pulling meaningfully on the hem of Maxim’s pants.

That’s all that was needed. Maxim takes it as the opportunity to finally, _ finally _let himself go, and he doesn’t lose a second of it. He pushes a hand flat on Timur’s chest, getting him to lean back against the wall a bit roughly, and grabs a condom from his own pocket. He gets his sweatpants and boxers down, opens the condom and unrolls it on his shaft.

When Timur makes a move to grab the lube, Maxim shoves a hand against his chest again. 

“You stay here”, he growls out, and punctuates his words by reaching over the other to get it. He pours some on his hand, pumps a few times along his shaft to spread it, and positions himself between Timur’s invitingly open legs. He notices with amusement that he’s _ perfectly _lined up. A convenient counter, indeed.

Maxim presses a lube-slick thumb against Timur’s entrance in a wordless question, locking gaze with the other, and waits. He gets a glimpse of uncharacteristically reddened cheeks and blown wide pupils, impossibly blue irises almost invisible. _ Insufferable_. When he gets a nod, Maxim removes his thumb, presses himself closer and finally pushes the head of his cock in.

Seeing each and every one of the slight shifts of expression on Timur’s face is a delight. Maxim stops when the ridge of his dick is caught by the ring of muscle, watching as the man under him breathes hard and tilts his head back. 

Maxim lets Timur adjust a bit, bracing his hands on meaty thighs to support himself, and begins to move. Timur’s breathing hitches deliciously at each tentative thrust, as Maxim is slowly working the length in with small, shallow movements. The glide is surprisingly easy, and soon enough, Maxim feels the muscles contracting under his hands, definitely not as a response to pain. Timur is so _tight _and hot around him. It feels like heaven. Maxim doesn’t know if he voices it – he’s already far gone himself.

"Come on”, Timur quickly demands under him, bringing him back into reality.

Maxim groans and throws all restraints away. He pulls back, almost enough to withdraw completely, and then abruptly sinks down to the hilt, roughly bottoming out in one slam of his hips. Timur lets out a quite loud and very satisfying moan, grasping the edge of the counter to anchor back against the movements, and Maxim wants _ more_. He immediately sets up a steady, fast pace, soon thrusting deep enough that his hips collide almost painfully on the other man’s inner thighs. Timur is taking him all in without any trouble, and he looks delighted doing so.

“You feel so _ good_”, Maxim can’t help but let out, clenching his hands on Timur’s thighs again, reaching deep with each movement.

It’s overwhelming. Timur is _ moaning_, he looks- he looks perfect, and Maxim hasn’t been this turned on in his entire life. The other gives no sign of discomfort, quite the opposite, and so after a high pitched “_ fuck, faster”_, Maxim picks up the pace, grateful for the furniture they're on to be built in the wall so it doesn’t rattle against it. A particularly loud gasp from Timur when he angles his hips a bit differently gets Maxim to slow down.

"You're making too much noise", he states, and it physically hurts him to halt his movements for a bit. He removes a hand from one of Timur's thighs and grabs the hem of the other’s telnyashka, pulling it up towards his face. "Bite this."

Surprisingly enough, Timur complies immediately and without a single snarky comment, probably for Maxim to just, well, continue where he stopped. And now, Maxim stands over a very disheveled looking Timur, chiseled abs on display and chest heaving beautifully under a fine sheen of sweat, eyes half-lidded and biceps contracting as he pushes back his hips to initiate movement again. The vision of him with his hands uselessly grasping at the counter, biting on his own shirt and erection twitching every so often right above where they’re joined is almost enough for Maxim to come on the spot.

"Fuck, you're hot", Maxim mutters for a lack of better words. 

He begins thrusting again slowly, leaning forward to let a hand roam freely over the perfectly defined body below him. He follows the happy trail, brushing slightly over an old bullet wound close to Timur’s navel, watching as the muscles under the skin keep twitching. He continues lower, and wraps his hand around Timur’s already profusely leaking cock, that rewards him with a relieved groan.

“_Yeah_, like this”, Timur lets out, voice strained. 

Maxim picks up the pace again, now accompanying each one of his movements with lazy pumps of his hand. Each time he forcefully bottoms out, burying himself the deepest he can in Timur, the latter whines under him, pure bliss on his face and undoubtedly matching Maxim’s own expression.

Somehow, the muffled moans are even worse to Maxim’s ears. His self control wears off as he loses himself in the welcoming heat, grabbing hard enough into Timur’s thighs that he believes those might end up bruising. Under him the other is so receptive, and Maxim spies a flash of teeth around the cloth as Timur closes his eyes and throws his head back, something sounding suspiciously like “_there-”_ escaping his pursued lips.

Feeling his limit drawing near at an alarming pace, Maxim keeps the same angle and nails Timur’s prostate once, twice – he’s rewarded immediately by muffled swears and muscles clenching erratically around his shaft. Timur finds a rhythm to push back against him, eyes closed as he still bites his shirt, and after a few more forceful thrusts, Maxim finally reaches his climax.

He presses impossibly close as he empties himself with more force than any other orgasm he’s ever experienced, feeling Timur tensing around him. Maxim finds himself almost regretting the condom, because as relief hits him and every fiber of his being, the idea of coming unrestrained in Timur, _ marking him _ somehow, suddenly feels like the only thing he needs. He grits his teeth, and curses as he slowly comes down from his high.

A push against his flushed close hips and the sizeable erection still twitching in his fist reminds Maxim he’s not done yet. Before his cock softens, he pulls back a bit and resumes thrusting with as much strength as he can muster, jerking Timur in rhythm as more precome pools on his fingers. 

It doesn’t take much longer before he sees the muscled body below him go still, abs fluttering, and Maxim watches Timur being sent over the edge under his hands in no time. The shirt snaps out of Timur’s mouth as the younger man very clearly tries his best not to curse too loudly, exhaling hard as he spills himself in Maxim’s hand and on his own abdomen.

They stay still for a while, the silence of the room only disturbed by both of them collecting their breaths.

“Fuck”, Timur finally says under him, and the flush still hasn’t left his face. Maxim can only agree.

“Fuck, indeed”, he echoes, and he slowly pulls out, noticing how the other man winces when he withdraws.

Maxim removes and ties off the condom, tossing it in a nearby bin. He comes back near Timur as the latter gingerly hops off the counter, massaging some feeling back in his legs.

Maxim wonders if it’s the lightning, the late hour or the fact that he usually never gets to observe the other freely for this long, but he finds himself thinking that Timur looks particularly beautiful, right now. Maybe it’s the freshly shaved hair, usually hidden under his trademark beanie, or maybe it’s the light stubble, that he lets grow when the weather gets cold again. He’s reminded of when Timur first joined Rainbow - he doesn’t know if it feels like ages ago, or rather the day before.

He hovers close to Timur again, cups his face and kisses him. Timur is surprised; their noses awkwardly bump and they both snort, but resume kissing almost immediately. Timur’s clean hand finds its way and strokes through the short cropped hair on the back of Maxim’s head, in a gesture that somehow already feels _ familiar_, as if it has always been this way. They continue for a while, unhurried, and Maxim relishes in it - he doesn’t want this to stop. 

When they part for air, they stay close, the air feeling still around them. Maxim rests his forehead against Timur’s, and whispers:

“I don’t know what I want.”

A beat.

“I’m fairly sure we can make this work”, Timur offers while he runs his hands hypnotizingly along the two scars on Maxim’s belly.

Maxim can’t answer anything. It’s too much, too soon, yet he wants it – _ craves _it. He already longs for more.

“I like it when you shave your head like this”, he says instead of an answer, grazing his thumb on Timur’s unique birthmark on his cheek, and then trailing off to rub behind the other man’s ear. Timur melts a bit into his touch. Maxim thinks it’s lovely.

Then, Timur flashes him what Maxim believes is the sweetest smile he ever witnessed on the other’s face, and says:

“I know. I noticed.”

When Timur kisses him again, something tangible can be felt in the air they drink out of each other’s mouth; and Maxim figures that they will have no trouble making this work, in the end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the support, I’m overwhelmed by the positive response this first work of mine has, it means a lot and I’m determined to publish more!  
The full, uncropped illustration, is [here](https://twitter.com/LevaSoj/status/1206362658959757312), please support this amazing friend and artist <3  
Find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/cerosin_bis) and [tumblr](https://cerosin.tumblr.com/).


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